Jessica's eyes are the color of broken glass—crystal and jade and ocean waves.
They sparkle when she uses all of the clean towels and leaves them hanging damp in the bathroom for Sam to discover the next time he needs a shower.
They glint at night, when they're lying in bed together. When she bops his nose in the darkness and he bats at her slender finger, and she winks from beside him.
They catch the morning light when she sits on the window sill reading a book, hair in a loose braid, forehead crinkled in concentration.
They shine when she's angry and frustrated. When her jaw clenches tight and her shoulders stiffen.
They go glossy when Sam holds her to comfort her.
They spark like hot, hot flames when she pushes him down into the sheets and covers him all over in kisses that are barely there, and she whispers things both obscene and sweet in his ears.
They widen with fear when she burns away.
Sam keeps a broken piece of glass in the bottom of his bag, clear but edged in a crystalline blue like the sunrise sky above the sea on a winter morning—bright and clean and always fascinating to look at. Sometimes he reaches into the duffel and cuts his finger on the glass, and it reminds him of her. Sometimes he holds it in the palm of his hand until it warms against his skin, then he puts it in a pocket or back into the bag or lays it on the nightstand beside whatever dingy motel bed he's sleeping in.
He likes to remember her by a mixture of soft and sharp.
It helps, a little bit.